


Clear Eyes

by copperboom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Friday Night Lights AU, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, POV Multiple, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:59:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperboom/pseuds/copperboom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After coaching for a decade, John Stilinski finally made it to the school of his dreams: Beacon High School in Beacon, Texas, home of Wolves, a 5A Division I football team. They were thought of as the favorites to win state with all-star junior quarterback Scott McCall leading the charge. But catastrophe struck, fortunes changed, and the residents of Beacon were left to reorder their lives. Still, they never let go of the hope of a state title and never, ever forgot that triumph and tragedy can be found underneath the stadium lights on a Friday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I marathoned Friday Night Lights last month and decided to try to write my first chaptered fic as a FNL au. This fic is maybe too much about all the characters, but attention is given to some ships more than most, the same as in the show. I tried and will continue to try to be fair to everyone. Also, I tend to write more than I expect, never less, so I'm not entirely sure how fast chapters will come out. However, they will come! And feel free to harass me about it if they don't.
> 
> I also decided to go ahead and rate and tag prematurely, though I'm sure I'll be adding more tags as the story goes on. But if you read and see anything I miss that you think needs a tag, don't hesitate to mention it. 
> 
> I have never played football! And, outside of movie and television settings, I don't particularly enjoy watching it. So a ton of research went into this but I'm nowhere near an expert. Don't be afraid to just mentally smooth over any rough edges you see. Or tell me about it and I'll attempt to fix it, though I make no promises that it'll be any better the second time around.

Coach Stilinski stood on the fifty yard line, hands on his hips, new purple hat tugged firmly down on his head. The grass under his feet was neatly trimmed, the lines newly marked; the smell of chalk rose up into the air, mixing with the fresh paint fumes coming off the goalposts. The bleachers rose high on both sides of the field, the home side fitted with plush purple seats, the away side nothing but cold, unfriendly metal. And the press box loomed above it all so that the arbiters of what was good, what was bad, and what was merely mediocre could pass judgment into their microphones and laptops. This was the home of the Beacon Wolves, stars of Texas high school football, and John Stilinski was their new coach.

He just hoped he survived past their first game.

“Man, check out their complex. I bet their library is total shit,” a familiar voice said from behind him, making Coach sigh and turn around.

“Stiles,” he said, greeting his son. “What have we talked about with the language?”

“To only use it when it’s most likely to give you a heart attack?” Stiles smirked, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“Yes. Except the exact opposite of that.” He yanked Stiles toward him and pulled the kid under his arm, popping the backwards hat off his head before scrubbing a hand through his hair. Stiles yelped and laughed and pretended to pull away, though he ended up standing with his dad’s arm around his shoulders, his own around the coach’s waist. They studied the field together, almost everything about them dissimilar, from hair color to eye color to features to physique, but gazes the same as they took in their new home. They were a football family, had been since long before Stiles’ birth, though he’d soaked it up like a sponge from then on. Sometimes, John wondered if his son knew _too_ much about football, as he was jaded about the whole affair. Still, he showed up and he played and most of the time he pretended to be respectful, and that’s what mattered.

“So, Pops, what do you think? Can we rock them like a hurricane?”

“We can certainly try, son. We can certainly try.”

\-------------

Erica slammed the door of her truck and stomped up the driveway to the Lahey boys’ house, not giving a shit if she knocked the balance of her frame off or tangled up the long blonde hair streaming behind her. She kicked the door with a booted foot, leaving black smears on the white-painted wood. “Isaac Lahey! I know you’re in there! Open this damn door, now!”

The door opened, revealing the angelic face of her stupid boyfriend, golden brows lowered over sad blue eyes.

She wasn’t buying it for a minute.

“You can wipe that kicked puppy look right off and shove it where the sun don’t shine!” Erica informed him, her bright red mouth tense with unhappiness. “I know what you’ve been doing with half the rally girls, Isaac, and I’m so over it.”

“Would you like to come in, Erica?” he asked, voice slightly syrupy from either natural inclination or the fact he was always half-drunk, she’d never been able to tell.

“Hell no!” she said, brown eyes snapping; but she pushed past him anyway, gaze skimming over the house littered with beer cans and posters of women stretched over cars or shaking pom-poms in skimpy outfits. Isaac’s brother, Cam, was sprawled in a recliner, sipping a longneck and watching ESPN. He raised his beer in greeting. She ignored him.

“Now, what was it you wanted?” Isaac asked, eyes clouded and distant, hands twisting together.

Erica frowned at him, trying to keep the rage forefront, trying not to let the hurt show. “How could you do that to me, Isaac? How could you fuck around on me like – what – like I don’t matter? Like what we have doesn’t matter?”

He shrugged, wide shoulders loose, hips holding all his tension.

“Really? That’s all you have to say?” She mimed his shrug back to him, movements exaggerated.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Great. Well that’s just fucking great, Isaac.” Erica laughed, a bitter mockery of the real thing. “Screw you. And screw your damn brother, too.” She pointed the last at Camden who basically ignored her. “We are done, Isaac Lahey. Done.”

She stormed off much like she’d come in.

“Nice to see you, too, Erica!” Cam yelled at her back. He then tossed a beer to his brother; they both settled in front of the television, satisfied with getting buzzed and watching the world go by.

\-------------

The Beacon Burger was the place where almost every teenager in town ended up on a Friday night. It offered a lot of the things available at a Dairy Queen or other fast food joint, but it was so much better, all of it fresh and homemade as well as dirt cheap, which helped with the teens non-existent budgets. It was also a popular venue for families to grab a bite or order take-out; that was what Stiles Stilinski was doing there that particular night, his first foray into the well-known restaurant.

On his way in he’d taken in the lay of the land without really appearing to, a talent taught to him by his mother, a talented private investigator before her death. The tables near the front windows, lit not only by the inside lights but also by the neon signage that sprawled across the outside, were the domain of the school’s coolest. They were mostly starters on the football team; Stiles recognized them from the videos his dad had watched and the files he himself had compiled.

Jackson Whittemore made himself the center of attention, loudly talking and laughing, drawing as much notice to himself as possible. He was a running back, fast and wily, known for avoiding smash-ups and scoring touchdowns. But Stiles had a feeling based on some interviews he’d heard that the guy had greater aspirations; namely, to take over the spot of the smiling boy who sat at the table behind him, one Scott McCall. He was the team’s star quarterback, the Boy with the Golden Arm, having started as a sophomore the year before and considered likely to continue as the first string QB and anchor of the team as a junior. His best friend and protector on the field – and off -- was fullback Isaac Lahey, as notorious for his bad boy behavior as he was for his wide shoulders and ability to break tackles. Isaac was lounging in a chair at the corner of Scott’s table, legs spread wide into the aisle. He was sipping on a soda cup, but Stiles was willing to bet there was something extra added to the mix, if the sleepy look in his eyes said anything.

Next to Scott was the leader of the Beacon rally girls – Texas’s own special version of cheerleaders, not only responsible for pep at games but for taking care of the players off the field. Her name was Allison Argent; her father, Chris, head of the Beacon Boosters and local business mogul, had already been by the Stilinskis’ new house twice, once for each day they’d lived there. But, much like Stiles and his own dad, Allison looked nothing like her blond, rangy father, instead sporting porcelain skin and long, curling brown hair, as well as a set of dimples designed to charm woodland creatures. She and Scott had eyes for no one but each other, holding hands under the table and sharing a plate of fries.

It was enough to make someone toss up their cookies.

The redheaded gift to Texas across from her, alternately applying lip gloss, flipping the pages of a magazine, and rolling her eyes whenever Jackson spoke, held his cookies down, though, mostly because he would be mortified to do anything less than perfect while in her glorious presence. Basically, she was a heart-stoppingly gorgeous girl Stiles knew nothing about. But he wasn’t against learning a little more.

His feelings ever fickle, she was pushed to the back of his mind as a guy stepped up to take his order. He stunned Stiles at first glance, with eyes that seemed to be a turbulent sea green, prompting further study, and a face set in sharp lines beneath the ridiculous paper hat that apparently made up part of his uniform. Stiles felt a grin spread across his cheeks at the same time his mouth began watering for something more than curly fries.

Not that he would exactly turn down curly fries.

“Can I get you something?” the guy asked, way too grumpy for someone in customer relations.

“Whoa, wow, I don’t know,” Stiles replied, pretending to consider. “I think your spiffy hat combined with the cheerful demeanor has totally thrown off my understanding of space and time.” He rolled his head around, eyes wide, while slowly moving his open palms through the air like he couldn’t get a handle on where he was in relation to the world.

He was really, really good at flirting.

The guy stared at him, stone-faced. Then he shook his head and stepped away from the register, making Stiles immediately regret his life decisions.

“No, wait, I’m sorry – please, I think it’s the hunger, it’s making me an asshole. Don’t leave me here to die,” he begged, throwing himself across the Formica. The dude made no move to come back, giving Stiles no choice but to beg louder, voice ratcheting up to an intense whine. “The pains, they are a’stabbin’! My stomach is gnawing on my backbone for sustenance! The world is growing dim! I see a light!”

The guy snorted, stepped back. “Walk toward it,” he suggested.

Stiles smiled, taking that for the apology it so obviously was. “I’ll take that into consideration. So, can I get one bacon burger, extra bacon, double order of curly fries, and a turkey burger, no mayo, no ketchup, light on the mustard, heavy on the veg, with a side salad? Any vinaigrette you have is good. Oh, and a large coke. And an unsweet tea. And a banana split. Or a hot fudge sundae … Or a cookie dough mix-up … ” A glance at the dude’s face told Stiles he was quickly losing his audience. “Fudge sundae! With rainbow sprinkles! And those candied walnut things! And whipped cream! But no cherry, they’re fluorescent and weird and might possibly kill me!” He rushed the words out, once again almost collapsing onto the counter.

He could swear he saw a softening around the guy’s eyes. It made Stiles smile hopefully.

Only to be shut down when the guy looked over Stiles’ shoulder and his expression returned to granite hardness. He snapped, “$14.37.”

“O – kay,” he replied, handing the guy the money, only then turning to see what had spooked him.

He was hit with a face full of smirking Jackson Whittemore, and got a sudden if unwanted understanding for why everyone called him ‘The Snake’.

But Stiles was willing to play, whiskey-brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Hello, sweet cheeks,” he said, greeting the footballer, who stared at him like he was pond scum. Maybe even lower than.

“Who are you?” Jackson asked.

“Why do you care? Oh wait, no, I know!” He smiled, sidling up to Jackson a little, just to see him squirm. “Is it because I’m your dream?”

“Dude! Get the hell off me!” Jackson pushed Stiles back and away, scowling. “What the fuck? Who do you think you are?”

Stiles feigned confusion yet again. “Your … dream? I thought we already went over this.”

“Jesus, you creep. I just wanted to know who the whiny asshole getting germs all over the place was. I didn’t want or need you rubbing up on me.” Jackson scowled, wiping dramatic hands up and down the sleeves of his popping purple varsity jacket. “Freak.”

“Jackson.” The redhead came up next to him, three-inch heels snapping against the laminate floor. “Why are you causing a scene?” She barely spared a glance for Stiles, who didn’t mind at all, preferring to become a slobbering cartoon character undetected.

The nicely tan heartthrob that appeared at his other side snorted and smiled. Stiles immediately identified him as Danny Mahealani, middle linebacker, a position often called the quarterback of the defense. “When doesn’t he?” His dimples were set to rival Allison’s; Stiles was left wondering if they shipped models into town along with football players.

“Please, like you guys didn’t hear him making a ton of noise, interrupting our night. He’s a menace.” Jackson’s square jaw hardened as he set his gaze on Stiles, who was honestly dumbfounded, but beginning to get pissed off.

“Dude, are you kidding me? You don’t even _know_ me,” he said, ignoring the fact that, after people did get to know him, the term ‘menace’ had been often and fairly applied. “And it’s not like you weren’t disturbing the air first with your hyena laugh. So why don’t you slither on back to your table.” Stiles added in a hand motion, sending his flattened fingers on a few s-curves through the air.

Jackson turned red.

“Shit, you’ve done it now,” Danny said. “He really doesn’t like people making fun of his nickname.”

They were all braced for impact when the ever-helpful Beacon Burger employee interrupted. “Your order’s ready. Get it and get out.”

Stiles took that under advisement as he stepped backward – never turning his face fully away from Jackson – and nabbed the bag along with the drink carrier. Briefly glancing down, he didn’t know whether or not to laugh at the three unnaturally red maraschino cherries triangled on top of his sundae. But, focusing on the matter at hand – for once in his life – Stiles held himself back and headed for the door, easing around the little group, saying, “Well, that was fun, but I’ll catch you gu -- ”

The Snake stepped forward. “Really? You think it’s going to be that easy?”

Stiles smiled, his sunniest, happiest smile. “Yeah, I really do! Because, in answer to your earlier question, I think I’m Stiles, Stiles Stilinski. As in Coach Stilinski. As in my dad.” He watched Jackson’s face pale as almost everyone else who was listening in shot their eyebrows upward, only the worker and the redhead seeming unimpressed. So he sent a wink toward the two of them. “Now, I don’t normally like to hide behind Pops, but I can’t pass up an opportunity for my birth to work awesomely to my advantage. So I’ll leave you with two thoughts. One, the man really loves to assign suicides as punishment. And two, he really hates to see me bruised.” By that time, he’d made it all the way to the door and pressed it open with his back, a cheerful jingle ringing through the all-but silent room. “Again, catch you guys tomorrow! First practice is sure to be a good one.”

\-------------

Jackson settled back down at the table only after thorough coaxing by Danny, who had made it his life’s work to talk Jackson down. Lydia had already resumed her seat after rolling her eyes at her boyfriend’s histrionics. What she didn’t realize, what no one but perhaps Danny realized, was that the anger and noise were covering the worry that had settled deep in his stomach as soon as he heard the kid’s last name. He’d been hoping for so much from the coaching change; Stilinski was said to be one of the best coaches in the nation, if not _the_ best, poised to take the Beacon Wolves to the state finals. Jackson didn’t want to just be a part of that. He wanted to be the star, the face plastered across all the magazines and immortalized in the papers. And the first piece of the puzzle was getting in good with the coach.

If he’d already messed shit up with the coach’s son, what were the chances sweet little Scott McCall would be all everyone talked about yet again?

“Fuck!” Jackson shoved his tray across the table, sending fries scattering along with teammates as they tried to avoid the sliding mess.

“What is your problem, Jackson?” Lydia asked, candy-coated venom in her voice.

“That kid is my problem. He comes in here and makes a lot of noise and then throws his weight around like his daddy makes it okay for him to act like he owns the place? It’s bullshit!” Jackson knocked his cup off the table, too, then immediately got annoyed at the liquid all over the floor. He snapped his fingers at the counter. “Hale, clean-up. Let’s go.”

It took him a minute to realize everyone -- well, everyone he actually gave a fuck about -- was staring at him, dumbfounded. Derek Hale, the guy who worked the counter, silently stalked over to clean up; Danny dropped down to the floor to help, murmuring an almost inaudible apology for Jackson’s behavior.

He tightened his shoulders, trying not to feel like shit.

“You are such a dick, Jackson.” Lydia stood from the table, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Allison, let’s get out of here.”

“Oh, but -- “ She glanced at Lydia’s face, then sent Scott an apologetic look, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and, grabbing her stuff, exited, carefully stepping over Isaac’s feet. 

Scott waited for the girls to leave before snapping at Jackson. “Seriously, dude, what was that? Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?” He frowned, brows lowering over melted-chocolate eyes. “You keep ruining it for the rest of us.”

Jackson scoffed, choking back the stupid-ass apology that was always the first thing wanting to pop out of his mouth. “Stilinski was the one that ruined it. That little bitch needs to learn his place.”

Scott looked at Isaac; both stood up. As they passed Jackson, Isaac leaned down, mouth brushing close to Jackson’s ear. “He’s not the only one.”

They left, Jackson hurling diatribes at their backs.

\-------------

The light from the fire pit flickered over the faces of Scott and Isaac, briefly shadowed as Allison stepped over Scott’s legs and all but fell into the low-slung camp chair. Scott smiled while she laughed and reached over to grab her hand, tangling their fingers together.

“Lydia was really pissed this time,” Allison said, sipping at the long-neck Isaac cracked open for her. “I thought I’d never get her calmed down. Jackson’s going to get the talking-to of his life tomorrow.”

“He deserves it,” Scott said.

Isaac agreed. “He’s an asshole.”

They fell silent for a while, staring into the fire, before Allison spoke again. “So, it’s your last night of freedom.”

Scott nodded, taking a pull of his own drink, before saying, “It all starts tomorrow.” He was, of course, ignoring the fact he’d spent half the summer at football camp and was diligent in sticking to his work-outs. Starting two-a-days the next morning wouldn’t be a big change for him. But he knew this was supposed to be his season, his team, his year.

“Yeah,” Isaac said. “Bye, sweet freedom. No more nights like this.” They spent a lot of time at the pit behind the Laheys’ house, enjoying the juxtaposition of the dark, open sky with the long, sweet grass that they never bothered to mow, the wind occasionally kicking up dust that swirled and sparked their fire. Sometimes they’d invite a ton of people over, throwing a few kegs up onto the cement slab that served as a back porch. But, more often than not, it was the three of them, a few bottles of beer, and the summer breeze.

“What’s the plan, again, Eleven?” Isaac asked, referring to Scott by his jersey number. “Talk me through it.”

Both Allison and Scott smiled, the request something familiar to them. “We win state this year, bringing in all the scouts next year,” Scott replied, gazing into the heart of the fire. “I get into some great school, like TMU, and end up their first string QB by my junior year. Get scouted again, get signed to the Cowboys. Drag you along with me.” He leaned over Allison and slapped Isaac’s leg, laughing. “You get to be part of my entourage. Allison can be a cheerleader. It’ll be perfect. We’ll be together.”

“Together in Texas,” Allison said, chiming in with her part of the story.

Isaac smiled, that slightly sad, sweet smile he had that just reached his eyes. “Texas forever.” His voice was low, thrumming through the fire-lit night.

He leaned over, the other two doing the same, and they clinked their bottles together. In unison, they said, “Texas forever.” And their promise rose with the smoke.

\-------------

Derek stood in the back and watched as the team ran plays over and over again, the sounds of padded bodies smacking together ringing in the air, accented with Assistant Coach Finstock screaming, often unintelligibly, which Coach Stilinski seemed to be mostly ignoring. Scott McCall sported the red penny, marking him as the quarterback and therefore untouchable during practice. Derek had a similar penny clutched in his hand, but he knew he wouldn’t need to put it on. Scott was the true quarterback, the anchor of their team. He was the unnecessary second string, there for the games where they were racking up the points, to be put in at the last minute and save Scott from working hard when he didn’t have to. He wasn’t even sure the coach knew his name. And that was fine with him.

He was only on the team because he knew that’s what his mom and sister would have wanted.

Vernon Boyd, a tall, dark-skinned boy with knowing eyes, jogged in from where he’d been serving as right tackle – the best line of defense for their left-handed quarterback – and came to stand next to Derek. They’d been in school together since elementary, but went a step beyond to best friends their freshman year, largely due to their matching stoic natures and outcast status.

Boyd nudged Derek and cocked his head toward the coach’s son. He hadn’t been at the Beacon Burger during the drama the night before, but he’d heard about it from Derek and was therefore able to pick Stiles out of a crowd. The lanky kid with the smart mouth was at the kicking cage, sending balls careening into the back of the net. They’d heard before Coach Stilinski was hired that his son was a kicker known for hitting any range. The night before, Derek had found that hard to rectify with the skinny guy swallowed up by plaid who’d harassed him at the counter. But seeing him now – it was night and day.

His face was set beneath his helmet, brown eyes glinting in the shadows. His body, instead of seeming thin and awkward, was whipcord strong and controlled, every ounce of muscle going toward driving the ball into the cage. He was ignoring the rest of practice and even the other kickers behind him, one of whom had been first string last year, but wasn’t exactly hot shit, unable to get past a forty-yard range. Not like Stiles seemed to be able to do, easily. 

He was beautiful to watch.

“Eyes front, Hale,” Boyd said, amusement threaded through his deep voice. “I meant for you to glance, not start drooling.”

“Boyd?” Derek asked.

“Mhmm?”

“Shut up.” 

“I’m just saying.” Boyd smacked Derek on the chest – hitting his pads, really – before jogging onto the field to take up his position once again.

Between the two of them, Derek’s bisexuality was a known thing; but he was far from out to the school at large, much less the team. No matter what was going on in the outside world, they existed in the more insular, less tolerant realm of Texas football. While there were strides being made toward acceptance of alternate sexualities, Derek didn’t feel safe coming out to the team.

Besides, it wasn’t anyone else’s business.

And he wasn’t interested in dating, anyway, whether it was a guy or girl.

He wanted to stay in the back; back of the pack, back of people’s minds, back out of the way of anyone’s attention.

So he ignored the urge to look back over to the kicking cage and, instead, set his shoulders and watched the rest of the team play.

\-------------

Coach Stilinski was just relaxing into his recliner to watch game film when the front bell sounded, loud and annoying. He sighed, yanking himself up to answer as he knew Stiles wouldn’t; when the kid was in his room, headphones on, fingers flying over the computer keys, there was no pulling him away short of an apocalypse. John had tried once.

Neither of them liked to talk about it.

John opened the door and tried to keep from rolling his eyes at the sight of Chris Argent on his front stoop, salesman smile plastered on his face. He must’ve failed, however, as Chris started apologizing for the later hour while not hesitating to press his way inside.

“Next time I’ll come a little earlier, Coach. I just didn’t get done at the shop until now,” he said, already in the foyer and heading for the living room, John following behind. Chris was referencing the gun store he owned, right in the center of town, though it was more of a pawn store than anything else, even having a mechanic and auto body shop connected to the back. It was rumored that Chris contracted out to the government, aiding in weapons design and coordinating efforts to get ammunition where it needed to go, but John didn’t put much weight in rumors. As it was, the guy was an expert marksman and way too involved as the head of the Booster Club for John to need a reason to give more credence to his opinion.

The rangy, hard-bodied man settled on the Stilinskis’ couch, making himself at home, his leather jacket creasing at the folds as he leaned against the armrest. “I heard practice today went smoothly,” he said, watching John carefully as he sat back in the recliner.

The coach rubbed his hands together, wind-chapped skin rasping. “Well, now, Mr. Argent -- ”

“Chris, Coach, I’ve asked you to call me Chris.”

“Right. Well, Chris, it went as well as could be expected, when you’re getting a team introduced to a new coach.” John hated to talk about strategy or the team with anyone but his son or his assistant coaches, and even they didn’t get to hear all of what was on his mind. He knew that he had to appease the Boosters, had been warned about it before he even got into town – after all, they were responsible for providing his salary as well as most of everything for the team, all under the guise of donations to the school. But that didn’t mean he was going to form a relationship with some guy he’d only met a few months before, at his interview for the job, and start blabbing about his Wolves – who, make no mistake, _were_ his now.

“And McCall? His arm’s still strong?” Chris asked, unperturbed by John’s short answer.

John smiled at the thought of the quarterback, who had proven to be as hard-working and kind as rumor said he was. “Arm’s strong, thinks fast on his feet, and can scramble when he has to.” He cut a quick look Argent’s way. “But you know that better than anyone, Chris. Rumor is you practically raised him, and now approve of his dating your daughter. Not to mention the fact you were at practice today, looking in on things.” Part of what made John a good coach was his ability to do research, to pick up clues, to intuit. If he hadn’t been born into the love of football, he probably would’ve been right beside his deceased wife as an investigator or cop. And all signs pointed to their son following in their footsteps.

Laughing, Chris leaned forward. “All true, Coach. Though I can assure you, we hit a rough patch after he and Allison decided to date. But he’s like a son to me now, one whose future I care about. Not to mention my love of Wolves football.” He twisted the ring on his right middle finger, denoting him as the winner of a high school state title. “I’m a big believer in protecting your heritage.”

“I can assure you, Chris, that I am, too.” John leaned forward as well, the two of them entering into a staring match that didn’t break for a good thirty seconds, until Stiles stumbled into the room.

“Dad, I’m just here to inform you I’m fully against ordering pizza again, especially considering you picked all your veggies off last night. But I’m willing to forgo my night to choose if you let me skip running at … practice tomorrow … Mr. Argent is here! Look, Pops, Mr. Argent is here, listening to me attempt to bribe you!” Stiles grinned at them, terribly awkwardly, and attempted to jump over the back of the sofa, tripping himself and basically making a mess of his life.

John sighed and bit back a smile. “Yes, Stiles. He is.”

Chris leaned over and patted Stiles on the shoulder, blue eyes crinkled with humor. “Don’t worry about it, son. We were talking football. But I was just leaving; I’ve got a teenager of my own at home, holding dinner for me.” He stood, Stiles and John standing with him. “Goodnight, Stiles.

“Goodnight, sir,” he replied, waiting until Chris’s back was turned to wink at his dad, proud of using his ‘new Texas manners’, as he’d put it earlier.

The coach walked Chris to the door, putting out a hand to shake his. “Thanks for coming over, Chris.”

“No problem. Thank you, Coach, for reassuring me about our team.” Chris took a step out the door then turned back with a smile, teeth flashing. “See you at practice tomorrow.”

\-------------

Pulsing bass echoed deep in Stiles’ chest, the fact that the words were indecipherable making him smile as he tried to take a sip of whatever had been poured into his classic red solo cup. He liked when things were so picture perfect, and the party was, what with the suburban setting, parents away, in-ground pool glinting in the fairy lights strung up through the trees. There was a keg in the corner, a stereo pumping out random and strangely bland rap music, and earlier he’d found a stale bag of tortilla chips randomly tossed on a kitchen counter as an attempt at providing food to soak up the booze. It was the kind of thing he’d seen time and again in every teen movie he watched and he loved that he was at that kind of party.

But he wasn’t really part of it. Instead, he was hanging on the sidelines, only invited because the team received a blanket invitation and had been driven over pretty much together after the pep rally that had been held earlier in the day. Another thing that had been perfect and yet strangely terrifying; it seemed that the students at BHS actually cared about the team in a way he hadn’t experienced before. It was nice but also weird. Mostly because he was pretty sure he’d heard a couple of freshman talk about how hot they found his dad.

Stiles shuddered again at the thought, taking another sip of his drink – really, had someone added a mixer to beer, because that’s what it tasted like, and it was nasty. Over the rim of his cup, he noticed Derek Hale and Vernon Boyd enter the party, neither of them looking particularly excited to be there. He’d been surprised, the first day of practice, when he’d realized his gruff, scruff-covered Beacon Burger crush was young enough to be on the football team and was, in fact, a junior, like him. But he definitely wasn’t against staring at Hale’s nylon and mesh covered ass twice a day.

He just had to figure out how to talk to him again without looking like an idiot.

In fact, he should probably start figuring out how to talk to _anyone_ without looking like an idiot. So far, he was zero out of ten for making friends, which wasn’t exactly unusual for him. With the amount they moved, Stiles normally hung on the margins of the marginal and didn’t really give a crap. But, as he was hoping they’d stick in Beacon for more than a year, he thought this time he might make an effort.

It turned out that years of not trying while convincing yourself you could do it if you really wanted to didn’t magically give you social skills.

So Stiles sipped his drink and stared and considered whether or not he’d had enough alcohol to pretend to be brave.

“You should do it.” A stacked blonde appeared at his shoulder, lips teasing the edge of a cup, lipstick matching the brilliant shade.

“Do what?” Stiles asked, blushing hard, glancing down at her breasts and trying to seem like he absolutely wasn’t.

“Go over there. Talk to him.” When Stiles stared at her blankly, she smiled and said, “Oh, come on. You may be looking down at these – ” She gestured to her own chest. “ – but it’s with the same face you had when you were checking out Derek. So don’t act like you wouldn’t jump on that. Rub all over it.”

He grinned, fast and hard. He just couldn’t help it. “Climb that like a tree?”

She laughed, a surprisingly bubbling thing that made Stiles just like her more. “I’m Erica. And you’re the Stilinski kid.”

“Stiles,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” He hesitated for a moment, then winked at her. “Want to go climb some trees?”

Erica eyed him, twisting a length of her already curling blonde hair around a finger, then seemed to make a decision; her face softened, and she held out a hand. “Sure, hot stuff. Let’s dance.”

They were edging around the pool, laughing about nothing at all, when suddenly Jackson approached him again, purposefully ramming their shoulders together. Stiles groaned. “Really, dude? We were having a good time. Can’t you let it go?”

Jackson sneered. “Let what go, Stilinski? The fact that you think you’re hot shit because your daddy’s coach? Or that he’s such shit at his job he’s entirely banking on McCall over there to save the day?” Holding his own plastic cup, Jackson used it to gesture at Scott, standing with Isaac, Allison, Lydia, and a few other friends on the other side of the pool, all of them turned toward the spectacle Jackson was quickly creating. “Or what about the fact you’re at my house when I don’t remember asking you here?”

Stiles had been trying to forget that fact in the hopes it would keep him from doing something immature, like wandering up to Jackson’s room and taking a piss on the bed. “Fuck off, Jackson. Everyone was invited.” He took a step forward, almost into Jackson’s face. “And I’m giving you a pass because I _am_ at your house, and there’s a chance you’re just being a drunk dick. But if you _ever_ talk shit about my dad again, I’ll rip your gifted little legs off and beat you with them. Got it?”

Laughing, Jackson looked around, searching for support. He didn’t get it, which seemed to impossibly piss him off even more; turning, he reached out and, before Stiles could process it, shoved him into the pool.

He hit with a hard smack, one leg still up in the air, arms flailing. Chlorinated water surged up his nose, driving what little air he’d managed to suck in out in a hard cough, bubbles exploding on the surface. The entire world was blue-black, bubbling water and burning pain, his back lit up from hitting the water, his chest clenching as he started to panic. Stiles finally hit the bottom, luckily in the deep end so he didn’t crack hard against the tiled surface, and was instead able to get his hands down and his legs under him, pushing back up.

As soon as his head split the surface, he saw an arm reaching for him and grabbed for it gratefully, letting himself be yanked out of the pool. Stiles started shivering a little, though the night was warm, reacting to the surprise and anger more than anything. “Thanks,” he said to his rescuer, finally looking up, cluing in. Derek Hale stared back at him, something like concern written on his face. “Oh! Oh, thanks, but I’m okay, I promise, I’m just a little – I don’t even know.” Stiles laughed, then started coughing as his lungs tried to process all the rapid changes. Derek moved forward as if to help him before everyone else rushed in, Allison the first to reach him, Scott not far behind. Derek stepped back and away, he and Boyd disappearing into the crowd. Stiles tried not to complain at seeing them go.

“Are you okay?” Allison asked, Scott right behind her with the same question; it was the first time Stiles had directly talked to either of them, and it was embarrassing that getting shoved into a pool was the reason. But he sucked in a breath, relieved that it was deep and finally gave his chest a minute to relax.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine, I’m just – pissed, actually, I’m really, really fucking pissed.” Stiles turned and looked for Jackson to find him already getting reamed by Erica, Lydia and Isaac looking on with smirks on their faces. Still, he wanted to take care of it himself; Stiles stepped forward, shoes squelching and sliding against the tile surrounding the pool. He almost fell again, yanking in a surprised breath.

He found Scott at his side, taking his arm gently, helping him stand up straight. “It’s okay, dude,” Scott said. “I’ve got this.”

Scott came between Erica and Jackson, the former relinquishing her place with surprisingly little fuss. Stiles saw why soon enough as the typically gentle, soft-voiced Scott straightened his spine and glared at Jackson, eyes flashing in the yellow light. “What the fuck were you thinking, Jackson? That’s a teammate over there, our teammate – “

“ _Your_ teammate,” Jackson said with a snort.

If anything, Scott’s voice grew harder, his shoulders broader. “Oh?” The one word was dangerous. “Do you want off the team? Because we could go talk to Coach about it right now.”

Jackson paled. “No, that’s not what I – fuck you, McCall, you know I don’t want off the team.”

“Then apologize.”

“To that – “

Scott all but growled. “Jackson.”

“Fine.” He turned to Stiles and mumbled, “Sorry I pushed you into the pool.”

Stiles wasn’t about to let it go that easily. “And talked shit about my dad,” he said, pointedly.

Jackson sighed. “And talked shit about your dad.” He glanced at Scott and asked, “Good enough?” Then, without waiting for a response, he turned his back on them entirely and yelled, “Shit, isn’t this a party? Let’s go. Crank the music back up!”

Scott just shook his head and walked back to Stiles and Allison. “I’m sorry, man. He’s been a bag of dicks since we were kids. But none of the rest of us feel that way about your dad. I like him. He’s a good guy.”

Smiling, Stiles patted Scott on the shoulder, belatedly realizing he was left a soggy handprint on the guy’s purple shirt. “Thanks for that. And, uh, my apologies for the wetness. I kind of can’t help it.”

Scott laughed. “It’s cool, I could probably use a shower. Don’t say it, Allison!” She closed her mouth and giggled. “But hey, do you want to spend the night at mine? My mom’s working night shift and that way you don’t have to explain the wet clothes to your dad. You can borrow some of mine. And we can ride to school together in the morning!” He seemed to catch himself. “Well, as long as Isaac’s okay with it. Hey, Lahey!” The curly-haired guy looked easily over the people surrounding him. “Can we shove Stiles in the bed tomorrow?” Isaac nodded then went back to the girls he was chatting up; Stiles stared at his head, then back at Scott.

“Uh. What?” he asked.

Both Scott and Allison laughed. “In the bed of Isaac’s truck,” Allison explained. “He drives Scott to school sometimes, since this guy only has a dirt bike.” She pressed a kiss to Scott’s shoulder, then nudged him, hip to hip. “If it’s all worked out, you ready to go? I can give you both a ride home.”

“Yeah! Oh,” Scott said. “I forgot that we were going to … Do you mind?” He looked between Allison and Stiles guiltily, making them both grin.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll just go over to Lydia’s later. She’s been asking for a girls’ night. I’m pretty sure she’s going to try some styling tool out on me before she touches herself with it.” Allison seemed to have a perpetual smile on her face. Stiles liked that. “So. You can take care of one of your boys, no problem.” She pressed a kiss to Scott’s cheek. “Let’s head out? Stiles?”

They both looked at him expectantly. Stiles blinked. “Yeah, by all means. Lead the way.”

As he followed them out of the party, he was barely able to believe everything had shifted so much in just a few minutes. He didn’t know all it took to make friends was a fight followed by a dip in a pool. If he had, he could’ve engineered that to happen weeks ago.

“Bye, Aquaman!” Erica yelled at him right when they hit the edge of the yard, about to make their way around to the front.

“Catch you later, Wonder Woman!” he called back. The last thing he saw of the party were her smart red lips, curled in a smile.

\-------------

The green of the field glowed under the stadium lights, the purple of the Wolves popping hard against it. Even though they were playing a night game, Scott smeared eye black under his eyes to tamp down the glare, preferring the grease to the stickers; his quarterback coach at camp that summer had produced a study from Yale about how grease worked and synthetics didn’t. It amazed Scott, that people looked into things like that. But he appreciated that football was a small slice of so many lives, like it was a huge chunk of his own. He didn’t know where he would be without it. It had brought him his girlfriend, given him a pseudo-father figure after his own had left, provided his friends, let him know he was supported in the community, and made his mother proud – though she always swore she would’ve been proud of him no matter what.

Thinking of her, Scott looked up from the sideline and found her in the crowd. She was concentrating on the game, screaming for the defense, long, dark curls threaded with purple and silver in the front, extensions in the color of their team. In the first few years after his dad skipped town, Melissa had always looked tense, worried, the lines adding years. Now, she seemed happy and young, laughing with the other families sitting around her, occasionally sipping from a cup he knew was half lemonade, half sweet tea. It made him grin.

Scott was proud the sport he loved gave her a reason to be social and happy.

A whistle blew, and the smack on his shoulder let him know it was almost time for the offense to get back on the field. They were moving well that night, not showing any signs of floundering under a new coach; the same couldn’t be said of the defense, however, as they’d just allowed the other team to score again, pushing them ahead of the Wolves by three, deep in the third quarter. As they jogged off the field to allow the return team on, Scott watched Danny yank his helmet off and suck down water, irritation plainly written on his face. It wasn’t a common sight.

Scott moved over to him, bumping their shoulders together. “Head on straight?” he asked, a typical phrasing on their sideline.

“Yeah. No.” Danny smiled at himself, that sweet Mahealani grin Scott had seen since Pop Warner ball. “We’re getting tangled up out there. It’s not that difficult but some of the step-ups are acting like they’ve never been on a field before. Annoying.”

Scott patted him on the shoulder. “It’s just the first game, dude. We’ll work the kinks out.” The return was over, putting them in decent field position. “Besides, you can’t blame the newbs – “

“ – for being newbish,” Danny finished for him with a laugh. “Yeah, whatever, McCall, I know. Go take care of your own shit and let me worry about my defense.”

Scott managed to sketch a salute to him before he was tugged aside by the offensive coach. Finstock started yelling something about fighting for their right to party before he was pushed aside by Coach Stilinski, who gave the other coach a look, clearly baffled by his pep talk. Scott just smiled, knowing the newer coach would get used to it eventually. The rest of them had.

“You ready to go out and win this, son?” Stilinski asked, blue eyes intent on Scott.

He nodded. “Sure thing, Coach.”

“Alright, then. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He outlined a plan of short hops before a long pass, hoping it finished up with them in the end zone. Scott could see the wisdom in it, making the other side think they were relying on Jackson before switching it up with a ball deep to their receivers.

“Got it. No problem.”

The coach smacked his helmet. “Good. Go out there and get this thing done.”

The next few plays went off without a hitch, Isaac making spectacular blocks for Jackson, who pushed them ever-closer to touchdown range. They were forty yards out by the end of the second down, in easy field goal range for Stiles, as they’d learned at practice; but Scott wanted the six, and they had another down to attempt to make it happen before the coach’s son would be jogging onto the field.

Scott looked to the sidelines and received his signals from Finstock, confirmed with a nod by Stilinski. He turned to his huddle, everyone’s faces shining with sweat as they worked to regain their breath. “686 Zoom F-Stop on two,” he said, staring at the wide receivers he was going to rely on to get the job done. He could feel Jackson start to complain that it was a throw, not a run, and cut him off before he could say anything. “Ready? Break.”

They clapped their hands and moved into formation, play clock winding down; Scott set up behind the center, giving himself room to maneuver a little, to make the right pass. He drew in a deep breath. The world stopped for just a second, like it always did right before he began a play. Crowd noise died down. Calls from the sideline went unheard. It was him and the ball and eleven players from the opposing team trying to keep him from reaching his goal. They wouldn’t. “Red 17!” he called. “Red 17! Hut, hut!”

The ball snapped back into his hands and everything rushed, from still to impossibly fast. Players moved everywhere but he’d long-since become adept at reading the field. Isaac slammed someone out of the way, fulfilling his job as fullback, watching to make sure routes were clear for the receivers. Said receivers were hauling ass up the field, his guards and tackles making the necessary moves. He stepped back, just a bit, and began his throw, aiming for a receiver who had gone deep.

The ball was just leaving the tips of his fingers when he saw the outside linebacker break through his offensive line, coming right for him, hand in the air. It was too late; the linebacker caught the tail end of the ball, sending it on a wobbling path straight above them. Jackson rushed to get there, to recover the intercepted pass before the linebacker could get another hand on it. They went up together. The linebacker came down with the ball in his arms. There was no one between him and the end zone but Scott.

He lined himself up, deciding on his best course, and went for it. Head high, driving with his legs, he made the tackle.

And heard his back make a sickening crunch before he hit the field.

**Author's Note:**

> Two things. I have no beta, so if anyone's into that and knows about football or just loves to beta, seriously, let me know. And check out my [tumblr](http://derekeugene.tumblr.com) if you want to ask me about the fic or watch me post truly shitty Teen Wolf graphics!!!


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